


Sin & Mercy

by Anjelica_Grey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Andraste Statue, Chantry Sex (Dragon Age), F/M, Light Dom/sub, Scout Jim strikes again, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16072646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjelica_Grey/pseuds/Anjelica_Grey
Summary: The Inquisitor finds she must atone for some very wicked thoughts, and her faithful Commander is more than happy to assist.





	Sin & Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a recent chat on Discord; written into a full-length piece as requested. NSFW.

“Forgive me, oh Maker. As the Herald of your beloved prophet, I beg your mercy.” The Inquisitor knelt upon the steps in the nearly-empty Chantry, praying into the silence. “I have been having ... most inappropriate thoughts about ... about one of your sworn servants. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to help myself.”

The lone other occupant of the Chantry responded to her troubled prayer. “Inquisitor, I see you are uneasy. I would be happy to intercede with the Maker on your behalf.” The man’s mouth twitched so quickly she might have imagined it. “But perhaps it would be best if you explained these thoughts further, so I may better understand.”

“Oh. Um, well ...they start a lot like this ... with me kneeling before Andraste in prayer. And you—I mean the servant of the Chantry—he’s with me ...”

The man sat in the nearest pew, and she spared a moment to be grateful she’d finally insisted on having the rubble cleared and adding proper furniture. He waited with a raised eyebrow, prodding her to continue. “I have heard nothing scandalous so far ...”

“No, not yet. But then he ... he stands near me, and lays his hand on my head in blessing.”

“Like this?” The man unfolded his tall, muscled frame from the pew, and came to stand before her, placing a sword-callused hand on the top of her head.

The Inquisitor blushed, trying (and failing) to present a calm face. “Y-yes ... yes, like that. And then he’s so close, his golden eyes are burning into me like Andraste’s pyre, and I can’t look away ...”

Stepping closer, he looked down his body at the flushed woman before him. The way he wielded that scarred smirk was criminal; it stole her breath. “Oh? And then what do you do?”

Her eyes flashed. Fine; two could play at that game. Ducking her head to hide her expression, she mumbled, “Oh, I can’t say. It’s much too shameful.”

His tone grew stern. “Inquisitor, I cannot help unless you confide in me. And I’m certain it can’t be any worse than ...” A bare thread of humor slid into his voice, “... some of your other inappropriate thoughts.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. “ She sighed, glancing past him at the huge stone statue of the Chantry’s prophet. “Andraste knows what the man does to me by now; letting her witness it won’t change anything.” And before he could anticipate her movement, she wound her arms around his body, pulling herself flush against his legs and filling her hands with his muscled posterior. He groaned as she rubbed her face against him, stroking his clothing-bound erection with her cheek.

“Maker’s breath,” he swore, gasping. “Evelyn—er, Inquisitor, perhaps you’d prefer to retire to your quarters where we might, ah, discuss your atonement in a more personal setting. The slight strain in his voice curled down her spine and tightened things low in her body.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she protested with wide, guileless eyes. “People would see us pass through the courtyard, and Maker only knows what rumors they’d start. No, Commander, I’m afraid we’ll just have to trust in Andraste’s mercy to keep the Chantry free of interruption.” That, and they’d locked the door, but why quibble over details? She plucked at the laces of his trousers, and then paused, her gaze skating over his sculpted torso—somehow made sinful simply by virtue of being clad in normal clothes, rather than his usual armor. When she finally met his heated whiskey-bright stare, the corner of her mouth quirked. “Unless you’d choose to stop now, and leave me ... unpunished.”

He cleared his throat, darting a sideways glance at the statue of the prophet, before abandoning the last of his misgivings. “No,” he replied with a growling purr. “We can’t have our Inquisitor thinking such blasphemous thoughts without retribution.”

“Good,” she said, and deftly pulled his lacings free.

________________________________________

Maker, but the woman was a minx. She reveled in tearing away every shred of his hard-won control, but she was so exquisite he couldn’t even object. In mere moments, she’d freed his eager cock, and the sudden rush of cold Chantry air on his flesh was shockingly perverse. Cullen’s thoughts flashed to the sour old Revered Mother who’d educated him in Bournshire, and wondered how she’d react to her obedient young pupil growing up to perform such sacrilege. But his attention was recaptured when Evelyn’s deft tongue curled around him.

He reached out for something to steady him, and belatedly realized his hand was gripping the heavy stone blade that hung from the prophet’s waist. His gasp drew the inquisitor’s questioning gaze, and her wicked laugh vibrated through his body. “Oh look,” she said, voice full of sin as she wrapped her fingers around him. “You’re holding Andraste’s sword, and I’m holding yours.”

Cullen’s face flushed a brilliant crimson and his eyes grew wide, but before he could offer an automatic protest to such impropriety, Evelyn slid her full lips down over him. With that, complaining was out of the question. He gave himself over to the pleasure of her clever tongue stroking rhythmically across his skin and the back of her throat flexing against the head of his cock.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind marveled at the closeness and comfort he’d found with her, after years of believing he was too broken to trust anyone. She’d had her own horrors too, and she understood. It had taken time, learning what phrases and touches would draw them both back into the painful past. Those things would always be part of them, and he knew it wasn’t realistic to expect otherwise. But after all these months of moving beyond the ghosts of old abuses, he saw her—not an unwanted contact, not a faceless body, but her, Evelyn.

His Evelyn.

... who was doing her level best to send him tumbling weak-kneed to the floor, and would likely succeed any moment. The tight ring of her lips around him as she subjected him in turns to the heated depths of her mouth and the shocking chill of the air on his wet skin ... the subtle twist added to the forward and back motion of her head, allowing her restless tongue to flick across the underside of his cock ... the toe-curling suction that welcomed him in on the downstroke and resisted her own efforts to pull away on the upstroke ... the slick pressure of her dampened fist sliding over the parts of his length she couldn’t reach. And of course, the obscene beauty of his beloved, her eyes locked on his, her face growing steadily more flushed each time he groaned in pleasure. His head swam, and only the years spent training his will kept him from giving himself over to be devoured.

But lions were not meant to be prey.

________________________________________

Evelyn had been watching her commander’s face, so his expression warned her before he backed away, seizing her hand and pulling her to her feet. Inwardly, she grinned; though he managed it now and then if she wished it, passive inaction wasn’t his style. But her amusement melted under the predatory heat in his golden eyes.

“I think I understand the nature of your prayer now,” he said, lust roughening the voice that never failed to captivate her. She took a moment to grasp his meaning; she was in such a haze she’d forgotten their little game.

“Oh, do you?” she asked breathlessly. “And what penance would be fitting for such sins?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” The corner of his mouth lifted in that damnable smirk that was so unfairly sexy. And then he surprised her by adding, “Stand here while I think about it. Don’t. Move.” Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to lean against Andraste’s long stone skirt, raising her arms over her head with one callused hand.

She fancied her heart would pound its way out of her chest as he stood there doing nothing more than letting his eyes trail lazily over her form, like a plains cat sizing up a tasty fennec. The flickering candlelight struck sparks in his amber eyes, and she felt their heat. And then he pounced, trapping her between the prophet and the length of his muscled form. In that minute, she couldn’t have said which body was harder, but then his mouth descended upon hers and she couldn’t think at all.

Kissing Cullen was always a revelation, whether it was a gentle morning greeting or the height of passion. He was equal parts tentative and demanding, astonished he was permitted such joy and fiercely defiant of having it torn away. It didn’t seem like those emotions should coexist ... but for him, they did.

The tempting little scar on his lip pressed against her mouth, and as always, she couldn’t resist giving it a fond and teasing lick. He smirked and took advantage of her distraction to slide in and taste the hint of himself that lingered on her tongue, and she moaned.

His hips shifted, pressing his erection against her belly. Her clothing did not provide enough friction to satisfy them, and for that offense, he removed it. A hazy moment later, she yelped as the icy stone met her bare flesh. Cullen chuckled, the smug bastard. Before she could decide whether to rebel, his lips were against her ear. “Now now, my dear inquisitor, you brought this on yourself by being so wicked. Did you not ask me to choose your punishment?” She meant to reply, but his teeth were grazing the soft join of her neck and shoulder, and she forgot to care.

Her head lolled as his mouth dragged slowly, so slowly down her torso, and he had nearly reached the chilled and needy peak of one breast when she slid her fingers through his hair, urging him on. He stopped instantly, fixing her with a stern stare. “I thought I ordered you not to move, Inquisitor,” he growled.

Her breath caught, a delicious shiver rolling down her spine at the note of command in his tone. But because she was herself, she couldn’t let it pass unchallenged. “Or what?” she dared, eyebrow raised.

He moved back a pace, eyeing her for a long moment. “If you refuse to be obedient and perform your penance in good faith, there is nothing I can do for you. I’ll simply have to ... appeal for Andraste’s mercy on my own.” He tugged his shirt off, exposing his glorious torso, but her usual hum of appreciation went unnoticed. Then her jaw dropped when, still staring into her eyes with the hint of a blush, he slid a hand down his chest and wrapped it around his cock, stroking lazily.

“B-but ...”

“Problem, Inquisitor?” he asked, with an arrogance built over months of studying her desires. He rocked his hips, enjoying her reaction to such delicious torment. “If you wish me to reconsider, you have only to ask.” She whimpered, and with a grin he added, “In actual words.”

Damn the man. She both loathed and loved when he made her ask for what she wanted. She blushed from embarrassment, and worse, struggled to ignore old fears built by other men who’d asked her private things just to hurt her with them later. But Cullen was nothing like them. And watching his lion-gold eyes darken with lust when she whispered her desires was well worth it.

Evelyn raised her hands back above her head, arching her back to display her bared breasts at a tempting angle, and his eyes flicked appreciatively over her body. She sucked in a breath, trying unsuccessfully to look away from his handsome face ... the rippling strength of his naked torso kissed by candlelight ... the line of muscle that began at his waist and angled temptingly in and down toward the slow, steady movement of his hand. It was a futile effort; she needed him like air, and they both knew it. “I’m sorry, Commander. Give me another chance,” she pleaded.

“And will you behave this time?”

“Yes, I promise.”

His sudden smirk stole her breath. “We’ll see, won’t we?” Without further preamble, he surged forward, gripping her hip and crushing their bodies together; his resulting moan when his cock rubbed against her pliant flesh was muffled by her taut nipple. She had a moment’s thought of gratitude for the thick stone walls of Skyhold, before Cullen’s hands, teeth, and tongue flooded her mind with bliss.

Relentlessly, he lavished her body with maddening pleasure. He followed a bite just shy of too hard by lapping at her nipple with his gentle tongue. One hand caressed her breast while the other teased ever closer to her center. When his talented fingers finally found her clit, a detached voice in her head noted he’d carefully trimmed his fingernails as always, to avoid causing her any discomfort; her commander never permitted his plans to be interrupted by leaving even the slightest detail to chance.

Over and over, he drove her to cry out for him, bringing her almost to climax and then backing away from it. Finally, she could take no more. Her arms dropped to his shoulders, and in a voice roughened by pleasure, she begged, “Surely I have atoned for my sins? Mercy!” His eyes met hers, and she gasped, “Please, Cullen ... I need you ...”

And as before, her prayer was answered.

With a growl, he grasped her hips and slid her upward along the statue’s sturdy bulk. And when he had her where he wanted her, he let go with one hand just long enough to sheath himself inside her in one smooth motion that had them both moaning in pleasure.

There were times Cullen made love to her with gentle sweetness, and it was wondrous and beautiful. But this was not one of those times. He pounded into her with a fierceness born of delaying his lust. She knew she’d have places on her shoulder blades and tailbone where the skin was raw from the punishing and exquisite force of his thrusts, but as she clutched his sides with her legs and angled herself so he hit just the right spot, she cared not at all. As they built rapidly to the finale of their little game, and finally cried out in climax, she ceased to be the Inquisitor or the Herald, or even Evelyn. In that moment, she was simply his.

Damp with exertion, he rubbed the side of his face against hers like a cat. Gasping for breath, he paused with his lips at her ear. “I love you, my dearest. Always.”

________________________________________

Scout Jim was at a loss. Commander Cullen had been very clear about delivering these urgent reports a soon as they were available, but he’d been unable to locate the man anywhere. He’d checked his superior’s usual haunts: the office with its imposing desk that bore the weight of determining the Inquisition’s movements ... the stable where the Commander kept the powerful horse he rode so expertly ... the sparring ring where he regularly trained shirtless ...even the chess table in the garden, where he often demonstrated his superior intellect against that pretty Tevinter mage and the inquisitor herself. But Cullen—er, Commander Rutherford, he corrected—was nowhere to be found.

The soothing voice of Mother Giselle interrupted his thoughts. “Do you need help, young man?”

“Yes!” Jim exclaimed in relief. “I have urgent reports for Commander Rutherford, but I can’t find him!”

“He and the Herald entered the Chantry a short while ago. I would not disturb them,” she noted with an odd smile he didn’t understand. “But they will doubtless be out soon.”

Jim waited patiently outside the Chantry door. He didn’t dare interrupt the Herald praying to Andraste, and the thick walls of Skyhold muffled any sound from within. After twenty minutes or more, he began to wonder if the normally kind Mother Giselle had sent him to wait outside an empty room as a joke. But at last, the door opened and the inquisitor and commander emerged, looking strangely disheveled.

He supposed for people leading Andraste’s holy army, praying might get intense.

“Good evening, Lady Inquisitor. I hope your prayers have ... uh, brought you comfort,” he said awkwardly. And because he couldn’t help sticking his foot in his mouth, he added, “Um ... are you both all right?”

The Herald grinned at him, her eyes dancing with humor. “Oh yes, we’re quite well, Scout Jim. I always feel better after I’ve called upon Andraste for mercy.” With a wink, she set off across the garden.

Such a strange woman, the Herald. But he had business. “Commander, I have the reports you—“

Cullen was fixing him with a stare that made him feel like a particularly unpleasant moth tacked to a display board. “On. My. Desk,” the Commander growled.

Jim gulped. “Yes ser, Commander Rutherford ser. Right away, ser.” Without another word, the powerful man strode after the inquisitor.

The poor scout tried to puzzle out the exchange on his way back to the Commander’s office, but for some reason all he could focus on was seeing the man out of armor, and the strong figure he cut as he walked away.


End file.
